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Through which the Persian steered with manya sail,
Throw to the Lemnian isle its ev'ning shade
O'er half the wide Egaean. Where are now
The Alps, that confined with unnumber'd realms,
And from the Black Sea to the ocean stream
Stretched their extended arms ? Where's Ararat,
That hill on which the faithful patriarch's ark,
Which seven long months had voyaged o'er its top,
First rested : when the Earth with all her sons,
As now by streaming cataracts of fire,
Was whelmed by mighty waters ? All at once
Are vanished and dissolved; no trace remains,
No mark of vain distinction: heaven itself,
That azure vault, with all those radiant orbs,
Sinks in the universal ruin lost.
No more shall planets round their central sun
Move in harmonious dance; no more the moon
Hang out her silver lamp ; and those fix’d stars
Spangling the golden canopy of night,
Which oft the Tuscan, with his optic glass,
Call'd from their wond’rous height, to read their
nameS
And magnitude, some winged minister
Shall quench; and (surest sign that all on earth
Is lost) shall rend from heaven the mystic bow.

Such is that awful, that tremendous Day,
Whose coming who shall tell? For, as a thief,
Unheard, unseen, it steals with silent pace
Through night's dark gloom. Perhaps as here I sit
And rudely carol these incondite lays,

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Soon shall the hand be checked, and dumb the
mouth
That lisps the fault'ring strain. O! may it ne'er
Intrude unwelcome on an ill-spent hour;
But find me wrapt in meditations high,
Hymning my great CREATOR!

“Power supreme !

“O everlasting King ! to Thee I kneel,
“To Thee I lift my voice. With fervent heat
“Melt all ye elements' And thou, high heav'n,
“Shrink like a shriveled scroll ! But think, O

LoRD,
“Think on the best, the noblest of Thy works;
“Think on Thine own bright Image 1 Think on

Him, “Who died to save us from Thy righteous wrath, “And 'midst the wreck of worlds remember man!”

BISHOP PORTEUS.

DEATH.-Latter Part.

Live then, while Heaven in pity lends thee life,
And think it all too short to wash away,
By penitential tears and deep contrition,
The scarlet of thy crimes. So shalt thou find
Rest to thy soul, so unappall'd shalt meet
Death when he comes, not wantonly invite

His ling’ring stroke. Be it thy sole concern With innocence to live, with patience wait Th' appointed hour: too soon that hour will come, Though Nature run her course; but Nature's GoD, If need require, by thousand various ways, Without thy aid, can shorten that short span, And quench the lamp of life.—O when He comes, Roused by the cry of wickedness extreme, To heaven ascending from some guilty land Now ripe for vengeance; when He comes array'd In all the terrors of Almighty wrath, Forth from His bosom plucks His ling’ring arm, And on the miscreants pours destruction down | Who can abide His coming 2 Who can bear His whole displeasure?. In no common form Death then appears, but starting into size Enormous, measures with gigantic stride Th’ astonished earth, and from his looks throws round Unutterable horror and dismay. All Nature lends her aid. Each element . Arms in his cause. Ope fly the doors of heaven; The fountains of the deep their barriers break; Above, below, the rival torrents pour, And drown creation; or, in floods of fire, Descends a livid cataract, and consumes An impious race.—Sometimes, when all seems peace, ..Wakes the grim whirlwind, and, with rudeembrace, Sweeps nations to their grave, or in the deep Whelms the proud wooden world; full many a youth

Floats on his wat'ry bier, or lies unwept
On some sad desert shore; at dead of night,
In sullen silence stalks forth Pestilence;
Contagion, close behind, taints all her steps
With poisonous dew; no smiting hand is seen,
No sound is heard; but soon her secret path
Is marked with desolation; heaps on heaps
Promiscuous drop: no friend, no refuge near;
All, all is false and treach'rous around,
All that they touch, or taste, or breathe, is death.

But ah! what means that ruinous roar 2 Why fail
These tott'ring feet?, Earth to its centre feels
The Godhead's pow'r, and trembling at His touch,
Through all its pillars, and in ev'ry pore,
Hurls to the ground with one convulsive heave
Precipitating domes, and towns, and tow’rs,
The work of ages. Crushed beneath the weight
Of general devastation, thousands find
One common grave; not ev'n a widow left
To wail her sons: the house, that should protect,
Entombs its master, and the faithless plain,
If there he flies for help, with sudden yawn
Starts from beneath him.—Shield me, gracious
Heav'n 1 -
O snatch me from destruction | If this globe,
This solid globe, which Thine own hand hath made
So firm and sure, if this my steps betray;
If my own mother Earth, from whence I sprung,
Rise up with rage unnatural to devour
Her wretched offspring, whither shall I fly?
Where look for succour? Where, but up to Thee,
ALMIGHTY FATHER Save, O save Thy suppliant
From horrors such as these ! At Thy good time
Let Death approach; 1 reck not—let him but come
In genuine form, not with Thy vengeance arm’d,
Too much for man to bear. O rather lend
Thy kindly aid to mitigate his stroke,
And at that hour, when all aghast I stand,
(A trembling candidate for Thy compassion)
On this world’s brink, and look into the next;
When my soul, starting from the dark unknown,
Casts back a wishful look, and fondly clings
To her frail prop, unwilling to be wrench'd
From this fair scene, from all her 'custom'd joys
And all the lovely relatives of life,
Then shed Thy comforts o'er me; then put on
The gentlest of Thy looks. Let no dark crimes,
In all their hideous forms then starting up,
Plant themselves round my couch in grim array,
And stab my bleeding heart with two-edged torture,
Sense of past guilt and dread of future woe.
Far be the ghastly crew 1 and in their stead,
Let cheerful Memory from her purest cells
Lead forth a goodly train of virtues fair
Cherish’d in earliest youth, now paying back,
With tenfold usury, the pious care,
And pouring o'er my wounds the heav'nly balm
Of conscious innocence.—But chiefly, Thou,
Whom soft-eyed Pity once led down from heaven
To bleed for man, to teach him how to live,
And, oh! still harder lesson how to die,—
Disdain not THOU to smooth the restless bed
Of sickness and of pain. Forgive the tear

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